


The Unexpected Day in the Life

by Magnetic_Stars



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Blood and Injury, Child in Distress, Common use of profanity, Gen, Good versus Evil, Gun Violence, Internal Conflict, Internal Monologue, firearms, minor display of violence, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 18:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20532830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnetic_Stars/pseuds/Magnetic_Stars
Summary: That one time a little girl had managed to prove Victor Zsasz wrong.





	The Unexpected Day in the Life

**Author's Note:**

> I've always had this deep, convoluted appreciation for Victor Zsasz. As I continued to watch Gotham, I quickly realized that he was barely in it. Needless to say, I was sad and disappointed, and so this one-shot was born.

I knew, a long time ago, that my road would be fast and endless. I’m zooming down that undisturbed road with all my strength, all my virility, and I am on such a fuckin’ high. There’s no stopping me. It’s the longest road I’ve ever taken, and it’s so... fucking... beautiful. 

People in my line of work usually keep some sort of a code of honor, something to keep them noble, virtuous, maybe even human. They think it makes them seem like they’re something other than a killing machine. Something that is ultimately ‘good’, whatever their definition of ‘good’ may be.

I had one of those codes once.

Can’t put my finger on it now... I don’t think I took it too seriously...

Oh well. It’s always best to let bygones be bygones. I never dwell on the past. What a damn waste of time that would be. 

I don’t normally think in depth while in the middle of a shooting zone. I’m usually too wired, too drunk on the chaos, too caught up in the music of firearms and explosives, but today is different. 

As I duck behind an abandoned CRV with my rifle pressed tightly against my chest, a soft sound distracts me from the GCPD across the street. I ignore it in the beginning, flinging my rifle away when it’s empty and stealing another from a fallen enemy... or was that a co-worker? Doesn’t matter anymore, does it?

I fire away at a group of frazzled cops and watch with indescribable ecstasy as their screams die out before they fall. They tumble over one another and some try to stand, but I don’t give them the slightest smidgen of hope. There’s no point. They’re dead men either way. 

Then, I hear that sound again. It’s high and constant, sort of like a wheezing balloon, or a busted fuse, and it’s really, really getting on my nerve. 

It’s close to me. At first, I think it’s the car, but when I lower myself down, I see no fuel leakage and I smell no burning fuse. I wish I could just concentrate on the mission and indulge in that euphoric high again, but I don’t. I can’t. Instead, I back away from the car and try to follow the sound.

“Zsasz!” Someone calls as I move away, hunched over but still facing the cops. “Where the hell are you going? We almost have ‘em!”

I don’t reply to him and I don’t have to. A bullet to his chest launches him down to his back. If the bullet didn’t kill him, his head smashing into the pavement certainly did. 

I grab another comrade by the vest to get his attention. “Cover me!” I yell, not waiting for a confirmation. 

I keep my guard up as I dislodge myself from the safety shield of the car. Gun in hand, I walk backwards towards the sound until I finally locate the source behind the thick bark of a great oak tree. 

It’s a kid. A little girl. She’s crouched down on the floor with her hands planted against her ears. Her mouth is stretched as wide as it can go as she banshee shrieks into the air, probably disrupting the sound barrier. Her eyes are clamped shut, and her face is as red as a ripe tomato. 

I don’t shoot kids. It’s not a code, it’s just not my job. Normally, I’d walk away, turn a blind eye and just forget whatever it is that I saw and get on with my life. I’ve done it loads of times before and I can damn well do it again. 

But then, she opens her eyes, and they are the bluest I’ve ever seen. Maybe it’s an effect caused by her red face, or maybe it’s the fresh tears drowning them. Either way, I admire her eyes for 0.02 seconds and begin walking away. 

I throw a couple of shots at a few retaliating cops until something new teeters my notice. The endless shrieking doesn’t come back. Throwing a quick glance to the tree, I find the girl completely turned towards me. Her hands are still pressed to her ears and her chest is heaving violently, but only silent tears now drip down her rosy cheeks and onto her drenched shirt. 

“Shit,” I mutter and make a quick surveillance of our perimeter. 

Any person with a brain is already off the streets. I see no mother in distress, no one calling out for a missing child, there’s nothing but firearms, rubble, and smoke. 

A bullet collides with my bulletproof vest and I stagger a bit before firing blindly into the distance. I’m being stupid and I hate being stupid. Taking shelter behind the tree, I bend down to the girl’s level and attempt to communicate. 

“Where’s your family?”

She snivels, her lower lip quivering. 

I sigh. “C’mon, kid, help me out a bit. Where’s your mom?”

“Sh-She let go of my hand,” the girl says, voice squeaky and airy. “I couldn’t run that fast.”

“Listen, kid, I can’t help you,” I tell her honestly. “So just stay low until the firing stops, and don’t fucking shriek anymore. Crying doesn’t make the situation any better.”

She sniffs. “O-okay,” she says, closing her eyes again, though that doesn’t stop the tears from rolling down.

“God damn it,” I hiss, unable to move away from her. She looks like a wounded animal, like a sad little critter with no control whatsoever. 

I don’t know what to do with her. Leaving her where she is wouldn’t make a single difference to me, but it would mean a world of difference to her. If she gets shot, she’ll bleed and die before medical help is available to her. If she gets caught in the wrong hands, she’ll be sold into hard labor or something much worse. There’s a market for everything. If I take her to the cops, I’ll get incarcerated. If I take her to Penguin, I’ll be accused of losing my dick.

Fuck this.

I nudge the kid with my boot and her eyes shoot open in panic.

“Stand up,” I say, gesturing with my hand in case she can’t hear me.

She stands uneasily. There’s a strip of blood seeping down her leg and I curse before commencing a quick visual inspection to find that her knee is what’s injured. I can’t tell through the slit in her trousers, but it looks to be a small gash. It’s a not a bullet wound, that’s for sure. If it was, she wouldn’t be standing at all. She must’ve had a nasty fall somewhere onto something unexpected.

“Can you walk?”

When she tries taking a step forward, her knees buckle and she sits back down, placing a stealthy hand over her knee, hiding it away from my sight. 

“I think I’ll stay here. I won’t make any trouble, and I won’t make any noise.”

_Huh… Brave…_

Too bad I’ve already made up my mind to get her out of here.

Deciding that enough time has been wasted on standing around and doing nothing, I haul her up over my shoulder and start sprinting without looking back, not entirely sure where I’m running towards.

Damn. I feel so stupid and I hate feeling stupid.

What’s nice about an unexpected danger hazard like a mass shooting is that bystanders drop whatever it is they’re doing and scat. This leads to my advantage since I now get to choose from a variety of abandoned cars on the street. I find a black jeep that’s still running and jump in, flinging the girl into the passenger seat.

She’s terrified. Her eyes are as wide as saucers and she’s shaking with fear. 

“M-my mom says I’m not supposed to get inside cars with strangers,” 

I roll my eyes. For her sake, I won’t reply to that.

It’s almost dark outside but I decide to drive without the headlights on. I don’t have a plan and I sure as hell don’t want to be tracked and followed before I figure one out.

I throw the girl a curious look and notice that she’d buckled her seat-belt. She sits farthest away from me, pressed against her door with a hand still gripping her knee. Blood continues to seep through; I didn’t think the gash was that deep. She’s not crying anymore, but her color is drained and her eyelids seem heavy. She’s losing too much blood.

Hastily tearing my glove off with my teeth, I throw it to her, startling her.

“Hold that against your knee.”

Weakly, she does so with nimble fingers, hardly adding any pressure to the wound. I hate that I notice that.

The closest hospital is approximately ten miles away. I could get there in fifteen minutes, but this kid doesn’t look like she’s got fifteen minutes to spare. I could also take her to one of those black-market docs… but I wouldn’t trust their work, not even for myself.

Letting my instincts take charge, I swerve the car off track and head towards the upper east side of Gotham, the closest thing to ‘home’ I’ve ever known.

I normally wouldn’t park a stolen car directly in front of the half-abandoned apartment I call home. I also wouldn’t ditch a mission in mid-play and tie myself to a child I don’t know. She’s not tense when I go over to carry her again, but I doubt it’s because she trusts me so suddenly. She’s exhausted, and I’m fairly certain that she’s officially gone into shock, judging by her cold skin and the fact that she’s hardly blinking at all.

My apartment is as empty as it was the day I moved in, save for the mattress I nicked from a deserted warehouse, a lonely grey couch in the small living room, and a wooden table with a creaky chair in the middle of the open kitchenette and… that’s about it.

I place the girl on the wobbly table and momentarily consider the possibility of it splintering underneath her. I knew I should’ve replaced it by now. She lays down with a whimper and presses my glove back against her knee.

I retrieve the first aid kit from the bathroom I hope she doesn’t request using and make my way back to her. The craft of inspecting a cut and determining its operation is not something hitmen ever professionally practice. It’s a necessary craft; one you’re expected to master on your own in this kind of trade work. Sometimes, you might actually be bleeding to death, and you know that no hospital will welcome you, and no alleyway docs know how to properly disinfect a needle. In the end, you only have you and yourself to rely on.

I’m not an expert, but I know my work, and I do good work.

The wooden chair scrapes along the tired floorboards as I adjust it by her wounded leg. Her eyes drift to me and she’s frowning. She watches silently as I align some gauze, tape, disinfectant, needle, and surgical wire on the edge of the table. Her soft, sharp inhale catches my attention.

“What… what are you doing?”

“You’re losing too much blood. I have to examine your cut.”

Her frown deepens. “But… but it doesn’t even hurt.”

“That’s because you’re in shock. Trust me, you’ll feel it very soon.”

When someone in the community is hurt, we don’t use fluffy words to give them false hope and make them feel better. It’s a tough business we’re in, and assassins are easily dispensable. We don’t stop to save one another if one is obviously dying, or if it interferes with the mission.

Now, however, I find myself searching for those fluffy words, the fluffy words I’ve never used before. The kid’s eyes are glued to me and I _know_ that she’s begging for some reassurance, wanting to be told something… I don’t know… comforting? Nice? Kind? 

“You’ll be alright, it doesn’t look so bad,” I say, wishing she’d just look away already and stop sniffling.

“Okay,” she says quietly.

I nod, more to myself than to her. Looking down to get started, I realize my next issue. She’s wearing one of those tightly fitted kiddie jeans… and I need to get to her knee.

I sigh.

“Umm… can you… do you think you can take your pants off?”

The look she throws at me is the greatest combination of complete shock and bafflement I’ve ever seen on a human being.

“Here??”

Dumbfounded, I wave a disregarding hand to the sticky, half-crusted blood soiling her pant leg. What does she expect me to do?

“But you’re a boy!”

I couldn’t help myself, I let out an unexpected laugh. Maybe this isn’t the most appropriate time to allow my questionable sense of humor to surface, but this kid needs to get her priorities sorted… Maybe _I_ need to get my priorities sorted. Vaguely, I think about the mission I completely ditched. I must’ve looked like a total chicken to someone witnessing me flee the way that I did. No explanation, no looking back, just running in the opposite direction. God damn it.

“Look kid, I’m not doing this for the sake of my health, alright? If you don’t want me to fix you up, fine by me. I’ll drop you off where I found you.”

I don’t know if those were some harsh words to direct to a kid, but they do make her wear a more serious expression on her face.

“Can you use scissors? Like the doctors on TV?”

I almost smack myself on the head. Duh, I can use scissors!

I mutter to myself and dig around for a tiny pair which I find at the bottom of the kit. The sharp blades are still encased in a protective covering… cold hard proof that I have never used this before.

Carefully, I cut the torn fabric far enough to reveal the entire wound. The rough fabric clings to the sticky blood and the girl’s tiny hand balls up into a tight fist.

Okay… the cut isn’t bad at all… What’s not allowing it to scab over are the few pieces of rubble wedged in there. I’ll need tweezers.

“Is it going to hurt?” There’s a clear waver in her voice.

“Maybe a little,” I tell her honestly.

I don’t have any form of sedative, but I know I have half a bottle of whiskey. It should do, but it won’t be pleasant.

After disinfecting the tweezers, I let a guzzle of the burning liquor seep into her open cut. She hisses and clamps her eyes shut and I think that maybe I should’ve warned her. I gently probe at the wound and try to catch as much of the spilling debris as I can. I lay the tiny fragments of rock and – shit – glass onto the table next to me and within her view. They’re matted with blood, hardly identifiable, and they look like they could be itty bitty pieces of flesh and skin. The girl’s face suddenly goes completely white.

“Don’t look,” I snap, making her turn to me instead. “You’ve already lost a lot of blood, the last thing you need right now is to fall faint.”

Her face contorts in enormous agony and frustration. “I feel so dizzy.”

_Of course you’re fucking dizzy. I forgot to give you a drink of water. _

“I’m almost done,” I assure, aware of the slight sliver of impatience in my tone.

I guzzle some more whiskey into the cut to wash out the excess blood and the tiny hand that had been balled into a fist earlier is now gripping the sleeve of my shirt.

“You said it would only hurt a little bit,” she accuses, fire burning in her blood-shot eyes.

How do you respond to a little thing like her fixing you with a deathly glare like that?

“Sorry,” I blurt, and I can’t remember the last time I used that word. It was light on my tongue, like it was the easiest thing in the world for me to say at that moment. “I’ve cleaned it completely now, but I’ll need to sow it shut. Two stitches, no more.”

“No, it’s going to hurt,” she protests, shaking her head with no true strength.

“I’ll be careful,” I say, and it sounds like a promise even to my own ears.

It’s a good thing she won’t need more than two stitches since I’m almost out of surgical suture. I hold up the needle I curved myself the last time I needed stitching and disinfect it thoroughly. The girl watches me the whole time with quizzical eyes. I can’t decide whether she is naturally pale or if it’s just the effect of blood loss. She watches me guardedly with tired eyes, her small, parted mouth is dry and cracked.

Without much thought, I go and fill a glass with warm tap water. The glass is chipped, and I didn’t check to see if it was entirely clean, but the girl chugs down the water without ever scrunching her nose at it. She takes every last drop before handing me back an empty glass.

“Better,” she says, voice still meek.

I nod, then prepare the needle by measuring the surgical wire I’ll need. Curiously, I throw her a glance every now and then. She watches closely, but not in fear. Her eyebrows furrow at my hands as they work and her head tilts when I weave the wire into the needle’s mouth. With a small sigh, she turns her head the other way and braces herself.

_Brave girl._

I burn the needle’s tip with a lighted match and begin to push it through her tender skin. She whines, and her hands harden into fists again, but she doesn’t pull away or disturb my work.

With two swift strokes, I’m done. They’re probably the neatest stitches I’ve ever administered. When the girl looks again, I’m dabbing away the dry blood and cleaning the closed cut.

“That’s it?”

I don’t reply. What did she have in mind, really?

“It’s so small, but the blood was so much.”

The blood wasn’t too much. Not at all. By her standards, sure, it must’ve given her quite the fright, but I’ve seen worse. I’ve _had_ worse. Way, way worse.

Once I gently wrap her knee with a thin layer of gauze, I begin to clear the table. By the time I dump all my tools in the sink and return the first aid kit to the bathroom, I find the girl with her eyes closed and her breathing deep. When I move closer to her, her heavy lids peal open even though I’ve made no sound as I approached her.

“Um…” I grimace at the obvious uncertainty in my voice. “You better rest for an hour or two, just to get a bit of strength back. I’ll drive you to your folks, or to where I found you… whatever.”

She regards me with a strange sort of impassiveness, like she’s grown tired of my face, or maybe it’s just the fatigue that’s catching up to her. Without asking and without hesitation, I carry her carefully to the grey couch. It’s composed of only two cushions, but she lays in it snugly. Immediately, she pillows her head with her skinny arm and I slump down into the wooden chair I’ve pulled from the kitchen, wondering once again what the hell I'm doing.

Taking my neglected phone out of my pocket, I cringe at the numerous texts and missed calls I’ve received within the past hour alone.

Seven missed calls from Penguin, four from Butch, and the twenty-something texts from my team on the field. I wonder how many of them made it out alive.

“What’s your name?”

I thought she was sound asleep already. When I look at her in the dim light, I notice she can barely keep her eyes open.

“Victor,” I reply after only a fleeting moment of doubt.

“Do people call you Vic, or Vicky?”

I snort. “No.” Because otherwise they’d die.

“You look like a Victor.”

Huh. I grin a little at that.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

Even with her pale complexion and the weak lighting, I’m still able to detect the subtle blush that wisps across her cheeks.

“Rosemary,” she answers, avoiding eye contact. “But I like it when people call me Rosie instead.”

I stifle an amused smirk. “You look like a Rosie.”

She smiles faintly. Although it’s hardly noticeable, her eyes smile with her, and I suppose that makes it all the more genuine.

Two minutes later, she’s asleep, and I’m guarding her like a fucking rottweiler on patrol.

_____

“Victor. Where have you been?” Penguin’s serene words are incredibly condescending to his crisp tone.

I will myself not to roll my eyes. Something tells me he might sense it.

“At home,” I answer, preparing my eardrums for what will no doubt follow.

I manage to pull the phone away from my ear just as a flow of word vomit spews from the bird’s mouth in screechy intervals. I can still hear him loudly and clearly; he certainly has some impressive vocal cords for such a puny man.

I keep him away from my ear for a minute, tuning in and out to his rant whenever I remember to. I do roll my eyes now, because, really, who gives a shit?

Rosetta… no… Rosie? The girl. She stirs a little in her sleep when Penguin’s shouting only intensifies as the minutes tick by. With a muffled grunt, I move into the kitchen and rest against the dripping sink. I count the drips until I reach about thirty before growing bored.

“Boss,”

But the bird doesn’t hear me at all.

I purse my lips and tap a rhythm to match the dripping tap water.

“And you just decided to abandon the mission just like that! Those men were there under your orders! And you just, what? Felt like taking a break and left the scene? The mission could’ve been a complete failure! Not only did I lose some good force muscle, but the GCPD now have a leak into our system!”

“I was hit, Boss,” I drawl, knowing that he still wouldn’t hear me. “What was I supposed to do? Bleed out and die over a mission so lame?”

“-and you are irresponsible, and unappreciative of your high commanding rank, and horribly impulsive, and never the team player-“

I yawn and wait for him to list all of my finest assets until he finally runs out of breath. I take the opportunity to cut him off.

“What do you want from me, Boss? I can apologize, but I don’t think it’ll do neither of us any good.”

I can hear him growling on the other end. “I want you to come in right _now_. No excuses.”

“Alright. Tomorrow.”

“Victor. You’re. Not. Listening. To me! You jeopardized a very serious mission! Obviously, you don’t seem to understand the convoluted results caused by your actions. So, kindly come by within the next half hour unless you want your head dismembered from its respective body!”

I emit yet another determined yawn and run my hand down my face. I’m so not in the mood for this.

“As much as that threat truly shook me to my core, Boss, I’m still going to have to deny your directive. I got shot, I needed medical attention, and now I’m going to work on squeezing in some beauty sleep. I’ll come by early morning. Happy dreams.”

I end the call before he manages to prepare his next rant with a lungful inhale.

Immediately, my phone rings again. It’s Butch.

“What?” I ask, voice dry.

“’Bout time!” he exclaims with relief. “The boss has been asking about you all damn day! You talk to him yet?”

“Yep,” I reply and brusquely end the call before I hear anything else.

I’ve had it with people nagging me all day. I can take it just fine when I’m on the job, but today hasn’t been the most typical of days. I’ve been thinking too much, to the point where I’m actually beginning to feel that it’s unhealthy for me. I jeopardized a mission in order to stitch up a kid in my own apartment. Who am I anymore?

Annoyed, I discard the bulletproof vest I forgot I was still wearing and grab a cold beer from my relatively barren fridge. With just the first swig, I start to feel better, regain a sense of normality. Just another night at home after a long day of unpredictable mishaps... By the time I finish the entire bottle, a sudden tiredness overtakes me, and I want to call it a night. Especially now since I have to be at Penguin’s early tomorrow.

But I can’t sleep. Not yet. There’s a sleeping kid on my couch.

Sluggishly, I drag my feet to where the girl sleeps soundly. Her arm dangles from the couch, barely grazing the dirty floor, and her blonde hair has come loose from its confined clippings and is now covering half her face. When I check my watch, I realize that it’s just over eleven, too early to call it a night, really.

After making sure that nothing is seeping through the girl’s gauze, I flop into the wooden chair again with a huff. Jesus Christ, I’ve turned into a complete babysitter within just one night, and no one is paying me shit to do this.

With my phone off my person and with the lack of weight from my vest, I feel light and content, and… so… so very… sleepy.

_____

My head dips.

I wake up with a jump and a crick in my neck. Rubbing my hand over that tender spot makes me groan with pain.

“Fuck…” I mumble, blinking away the sleep and taking in the familiarity of my apartment.

Okay. Everything’s seems to be in order… except for those bright blue eyes staring at me intensely.

I try to straighten up and wince when I feel the resistance caused by the knots in my back. The wooden chair squeaks noisily under my weight.

I hate this chair.

“Are you a bad guy?”

_What the fuck is she on about now?_

I blink momentarily, my brain too mushy to process her words.

“Uhm… I’m… hm… What?”

“You have guns,” she explains, matter-of-factly.

Sleepily, I shrug. “Cops have guns.”

She falls quiet, and a part of me takes satisfaction in besting a kid… which should probably say something about my simplistic way of thinking.

“But cops have badges,” she retaliates then. “Do you have a badge?”

I let out a long exhale. “Badges are Lame, with a capital L. How does your leg feel?”

She considers this for a few seconds. “Okay,” she decides. “But can I walk?”

“You’re gonna,” I warn, standing up to stretch. “’Cause I’m not going to be carrying anybody today. Back’s fucked up.”

The girl visibly shivers. “You say a lot of dirty words. You are a bad guy.”

I roll my eyes. “You watch way too much T.V.”

Checking the time, it’s fucking four in the morning. I contemplate dumping myself onto my spring mattress for another hour or two until I notice the girl trying to stand up. I don’t help her; she’s being careful enough. She manages to stand steadily with a hand supporting herself against the armrest of the couch.

Then, once she gains some balance, she takes two steps towards me without ever wobbling. When she stops and looks at me, I can see the pride in her eyes.

“It feels good,” she announces. “It’s a bit weird, but it doesn’t hurt too much.”

I almost want to say ‘good, so you can walk home on your own’, but an internal force stops me from making that suggestion or anything else along the line.

_Why am I acting so… stupid?_

Do I care about her? Is this what caring feels like? I don’t feel anything emotionally… nor do I feel like this is the moral thing to do. It’s a nameless feeling, it almost feels like an incomplete feeling, even. Like it’s something unpolished, something undecided upon. It’s going to drive me mad.

“Do you have anything to eat?”

Mindlessly, I shake my head. “No, and you need to go home.”

I can’t remember where I kicked my boots off. As I search for them, I flex my arms and shoulder muscles to relieve the tension there caused by the worst sleep of my life. It brings me no relief at all.

I find my boots by the front door and clumsily pull them on without undoing the laces. Grabbing a glass of tap water, I return to find the girl sitting again and offer it to her. She takes it without question and quenches her thirst. I don’t know if she trusts me yet or if she’s purely this naïve, but I could have very well drugged her beverage and she would never know. Kids are such easy victims. I may be a sick bastard, but it’s a good thing I have no interest in harming kids.

Wonder if she knows how lucky she is.

“If you’re a bad guy, why are you helping me?” she asks with a curious brow, caressing the empty glass in her hands.

“’Good’ and ‘bad’ are relative,” I say, unsure if she understands what I mean. “A badge doesn’t have to decide if someone’s good or bad.”

She frowns, and I can see the gears churning in her head.

“So… you’re a good guy.”

I grind my teeth, feeling a slight irritation building in my chest. “Look, kid. Let me put it this way. I have guns, I’m not a cop, and I helped you anyway. Draw whatever conclusion you want from that.”

_Because to hell if I’ve managed to do that yet…_

She gnaws on her lip and seems to dive into some hard-core thinking. I leave her to her thoughts and fasten my holster around my back. I wince. God damn it I must be getting seriously old. Grabbing my bag of reinforced weapons and spare parts, I bring it back to the living room and cannot help but collapse into the seat beside the girl’s.

If a bad chair is what it takes to break me, then I may as well retire because this is some fucked up shit.

I reload my rifle and fit a small knife into the holster around my hips. Sometimes, guns just don’t do it for me. Stabbing and slashing though… that gives me way more room to exercise some creativity.

I ignore the girl, but I know she’s watching me. As I search for some extra mags, I hear her prudently place the empty glass down against the foot of the couch. Then, I feel her small hand on my shoulder and my eyes snap to her. She’s nervous, I can tell from the slight pull of her lips and the softness in her touch, but her eyes are warm and concerned.

“I… My mom says I give nice back missages.”

My brain buffers for a few seconds. “Okay. Firstly, It’s _massages_. And, secondly, no thank you.”

“But you helped me yesterday. I can be helpful, too.”

Fuck. I want to say no. In fact, I did say 'no', but I wanna be more convincing about it. As I stare at her and think about her offer, I am once again made certain of something I’ve decided upon a long time ago: Kids are super weird. I don’t feel sorry for them or anything. They’re not my forte and I never had a problem telling them to fuck off before, but this kid right here made me act in ways that are way outside my element. I’ve never managed to have a conversation with a kid before, not since I was one, at least. I’ve definitely never helped one out, and I sure as hell was never at the receiving end of any gratitude from them.

Stiffly, I grunt and begrudgingly turn my back to her. She doesn’t scoot in any closer, but her second hand does come to grab my other shoulder. Agile fingers flex timidly, and I can barely feel anything at all. Maybe if I remove my holster… but no. For some reason, I’m not letting her do this to fix my back. She wants to _‘be helpful’_… I can let her feel helpful for a little while.

“How old are you?” I ask on impulse.

“I’m six, and I’m the tallest in my class.”

I grin. There was a time when I cared about height, too.

“How old are you?”

I grimace. “I don’t know. Late thirties maybe.”

“Why don’t you know?”

“Because I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

We’re both quiet now and I think I prefer it this way. Of course, you can’t have too much of a good thing, because she already starts talking again.

“That’s why you have to have birthday parties. When you have one, you always remember how old you are. My birthday is in April and I always have it in the park and I get a lot of presents-“

I tune her out as best as I can because it is too early for this. I vaguely hear her going on and on, but I try harder to clear my head and think of where to drop her off. I don’t know where she lives, and I suppose she can direct me, but there’s no way I’m taking directions from a kid. She could end up in the wrong house. The hospital is probably the safest way to go, because I am not driving one radius near a police station, let alone the GCPD headquarters.

“Is your back better?”

“Hm… what?” I mumble distractedly. “Oh. Yeah, better.”

It’s not better at all. I’m going to need way more than timid, skinny little fingers to untie the knots, but I suppose it’s the good intention behind it all that kinda puts me in awe. I could even call it cute. I could, but I won’t.

I move away from her and her hands fall to her lap, but she’s smiling. I hope what I offer her is my best effort at a genuine smile and not a sneer.

It’s just after five now, Penguin will no doubt expect me at around six. We have to get moving.

“I’m still not carrying you,” I notify the girl. “You’re walking to the car, then I’m taking you to the hospital. They can call your folks.”

She nods and carefully stands again. She walks slowly to the front door and shivers at the cool morning air. The sun has just begun to rise. This could buy me some more time.

The car has little fuel, but it’s enough for two stops. I can ditch it at Penguin’s. I don’t care what he decides to do with it afterwards.

As I drive, the girl sits more relaxed now than she did yesterday. She’s not putting any extra space between us and she’s not watching me like a deer in headlights. Instead, she looks out the window and says very little, but I can sense that she’s calm.

With the streets so empty, I reach Gotham’s central hospital faster than I’d thought. I stop a little farther away from the main gate and turn to the girl.

“This is as far as I’m going. Make your way inside and let them check your cut while they contact your parents.”

She worries her bottom lip. “Come with me?”

_Shit. Attachment issues. _

“I can’t, kid. I got work.”

Great. Now she’s sniffing. Why the hell is she-

“Here,” she pulls out something dark and raggedy from her pocket. At first, I frown, but when she extends her hand to me, I realize it’s the glove I’d given her. It’s still stained with her blood, and she’s blushing furiously. “Sorry, it’s dirty.”

I smile, and I know I smile for real this time because I don’t have to think about it.

“Blood is not dirt,” I tell her, taking the glove from her and pocketing it myself.

Then, before I can physically or mentally prepare myself, the girl comes in to wrap her short arms around my middle and presses herself to my stomach. I think this is a hug; an awkward one. The gear shift is in her way and I can tell she’s trying not to put any pressure on her knee as she stretches out to reach me. Worst of all, though, is that I feel awkward too, because I don’t hug her back. Not really.

At first, I’m frozen in place, which is incredibly pathetic of me since I’m used to always having a plan, something to anticipate. This was not planned… although, neither was the massage, or the antagonizing conversations, or the injured leg, or the girl herself for that matter.

Reluctantly, I place a hand to her shoulder. It’s not an embrace. I don’t know what this is. I decide to give her a friendly pat before I start pushing her away gently. Her hold tightens, and I realize I’m stuck.

For the first time in a long time, I peer around at my surrounding to make sure nobody is witnessing this painful exchange. I’d gut them before attaining any pleasure from the act.

The girl finally lifts her head up and stares at me with riveting eyes.

“Thank you for saving my life, Victor.”

I shift uncomfortably. She’s still clinging onto my torso and I don’t really know how much force I can use without hurting her.

She’s expecting me to say something back. I stall by clearing my throat. “Don’t worry about it. Thanks for the missage. _Massage_. I meant massage.”

Seriously. I’ll gut whoever may be watching this right now.

The girl giggles and I manage to indulge her with a short chuckle. Finally, she lets me go and opens her door. Just as she’s getting out, she pauses, and I curse mentally.

“You can come to my birthday party,” she says suggestively, rendering me frozen once again. “You don’t have to bring me presents, or anything. I’m having it in the park, like always. It’s on April 12.”

Kids are so fucking weird.

I could just say that I’ll be busy that day, or I might be outside the city, or even point out that she never specified which park, since Gotham is littered with them, but I don’t say any of this.

“I’ll try my best.” I reply, and it makes her smile.

With a wave, she closes the door and walks slowly towards the hospital doors without limping. I don’t drive away until I see her walking in.

_____

Being decommissioned from my leader role doesn’t come as a shock to me. It doesn’t even anger me. I gather it’s because I’ve always considered my job at Penguin’s a temporary one. Or maybe it’s because it never really mattered to me what role I’m given so long as I still got to kill people and have fun with it. If anything, it’s nice not being nagged at 24/7. Gives me more time to sleep.

As the weeks roll by, I begin planning for a bigger future. A future where I leave Penguin’s flock for good, start my own gang, and claim a territory for myself to govern. It’s a work in progress, and I can be a very patient man, despite Penguin’s belief in my ever-growing impulsive tendencies. I take my time, choose my men wisely, and search for the perfect location to stamp my mark on for good.

In search for unmarked territory, I’ve scouted Gotham’s downtown and midtown areas until I’ve finally reached the uptown region beyond Gotham’s River. As I gallivant the streets, I pass by a family park. It’s a weekend, and the park is unsurprisingly crowded. Children run around wildly as they play while parents hilariously struggle to find shade. I don’t pass through the park. Too much commotion in there. Instead, I walk along the fence, hands in the pockets of my dark trousers.

“Rosemary, put your shoes back on!” someone yells out in the far distance.

It’s such an unusual name to give to your kid. Had any other normal, boring name been called out, I wouldn’t have batted an eye. Now, however, not only does my pace slow down, but I tilt my head to get a better look.

The little blonde-haired girl with the pink cheeks and shining eyes is hard to miss, especially with the way she’s running and skipping around joyfully. She’s loud and obnoxious as she plays with her friends, barefooted, with hair messily blowing in the slight breeze. When my eyes fix on the golden paper crown atop her head, the memory zaps me like a bolt of lightning.

April 12. Her birthday.

Adjusting my cap to shield my eyes, I lower my head and keep walking. I’m not a fan of reunions, or any general emotional setting. Although Gotham is a relatively small city, I didn’t think I’d ever see that little girl again; figured I’d have no reason to. She bled, I stitched, she massaged, and I drove. End of story.

As I round the street, a small smile comes to my lips, because it’s not really an ‘end of story’. Not for me, at least. I don’t think she’ll ever forget what I did for her, but she does have her whole life ahead of her, and she’s likely to forget my face, or my name, eventually. But as I walk away from the childish laughter, I realize that I’m unlikely to ever forget her, not after she made me think so much to the point where I had ongoing migraines for weeks. 

That kid gave me something her little brain wouldn’t be able to comprehend. She gave me a code, something I have long neglected many, many years ago.

I’m an assassin. I kill people for fun, and I love what I do. I don’t care about a lot of things. Offensive stuff makes me laugh. I have a dirty mouth and I have no filter. I feel old as fuck and I don’t know my age. Killing is my sport, blood is my drug, and I have a code.

Kids shouldn’t be victims. Not ever. They are not bait, or merchandise, or tools, or laborers, or targets for anything. They’re just kids, and they should stay that way. Free to live their childhoods, free from the bullshit of adults who strive on corruption and filth. They’ll get a knack at it eventually, as we all do, but not now. Not when all they care about is having their birthdays in the park.

And, so, it’s decided. I’ll make this uptown area my territory, and my gang will heed my orders, and the kids here will never be at the receiving end of any kind of violence. I may not be typically merciful, but kids deserve nothing less.

I will gut whomever disagrees, because sometimes guns just don’t do it for me.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Don't be shy and let me know what y'all think!


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